


I Will Fear No Evil

by monimala



Category: Justified
Genre: Blasphemy, Gen, Jossed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set nebulously in season three and originally posted on LiveJournal. <i>Boyd, body *and* spirit, has been his charge, his responsibility.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Fear No Evil

“ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...’ ”  
  
He must be dying. It’s the only explanation for why Boyd Crowder’s hypnotic, preacher-in-the-pulpit, voice is echoing in his ears. Saying the 23rd Psalm, no less. Something he ain’t heard since Aunt Helen’s funeral. So, death. Or worse. “I’m in Hell.” His throat feels like sandpaper, the three tiny words like pinpricks. Instantly, there’s something cool poking at his lips, the welcome bite of an ice chip. They don’t serve ice in Hell, as far as he recollects.  
  
“Now, now, Raylan,” he’s chided as the cold slides down his gullet. “As sainted as you are, don’t you think you’d be greeting St. Peter at the gates?” Boyd’s laugh is quiet, but it fills the room. A hospital room, Raylan realizes, when bright white light of the distinctly non-heavenly variety spills into the cracks in his eyelashes. Shit. He got shot again, didn’t he? There’s a vague memory of Quarles. Limehouse. Arlo. The bridge. _Arlo_. He damn near jack knifes out of bed, but blistering pain, a couple of tubes, and Boyd’s hand smack in the center of his chest keep him down. “He’s fine. Your esteemed colleagues at the marshal’s service took Arlo to a private nursing facility, where he is receiving the best of care for his condition.”  
  
“Wh-why aren’t you in jail, Boyd?” The question is broken up by the grudging acceptance of a plastic cup of water and a straw. And an irritable “fuck you” instead of a “thank you.”  
  
Boyd’s smile is like the flare of a match in a dank mineshaft. “Are we speaking in general terms, or specific to this particular situation?” The man would double talk the Devil if he could. That is, assuming he ain’t Old Scratch himself.  
  
After drinking just about as much as he can handle, Raylan struggles to put the cup aside, ignoring the burning sensation in his gut and Boyd’s outstretched hand. “Don’t bullshit me.”  
  
“I would never dare.” That’s a lie, and they both know it. But what he says next, Raylan actually believes. “But I do worry for you, Raylan, because if your soul were to leave this earth, who would watch over mine?”  
  
Ever since he set foot back in Harlan County, Boyd, body _and_ spirit, has been his charge, his responsibility. The hitchhiker on every ride. The shadow that stretches behind him on every patch of cement. The thorn in his side. The monkey on his goddamn back. “I hate you. You know that, right?”  
  
“You hate my sins. I do not deny I have many.” Boyd leans forward, his suntanned hand dark on the crisp, white sheets. His eyes are even darker. Like twin hallways to the fiery depths. “But you love the sinner. And the feeling is entirely mutual, Raylan. I confess I have a fondness for you and what one might call your ‘Old West’ code of ethics.”  
  
“That, right there, is a liberal interpretation of our… relationship.” For lack of a better word. “And you’ve never struck me as a precisely liberal type. Or did you come outta prison with more than just a wide selection of Nazi tattoos?” What would take a decent amount of time for the average slow talking Southerner to spit out takes Raylan double, what with stopping to breathe and wincing at the twinges of agony that run up and down his lungs like razor cuts. But Boyd watches him with infinite patience, wearing that Mona Lisa smile he sports for every felonious occasion.  
  
“I admit, I went _in_ to prison with this affliction. You see, Raylan, your influence has been upon me for years.” It’s another pack of lies, but he’ll be damned if Boyd doesn’t tell them eloquently. “Even when I found brief comfort in the Lord, I saw myself struggling to reconcile the Good Book with what _you_ would have me do.” He’s sitting right up on the edge of the bed now, head bent as if confiding some great secret. “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” he quotes, softly. “ ‘For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’”  
  
Funny, but those lines never sounded quite so damn filthy before. But, then, Raylan’s certain that no preacher ever meant _his_ rod, _his_ staff, which seems to be the only body part of his that doesn’t hurt. No, it stirs under his threadbare hospital gown like it’s coming alive on Easter Sunday. “Boyd,” he warns, feeling parched all over again. “Boyd, you are so far over the goddamn line that you’re in the next county.”  
  
“You almost died today. We may not be friends, but we are not enemies. And there is no line.” He _must_ be dying. It’s the only explanation for why Boyd Crowder’s lips brush his. Hell, he discovers, doesn’t taste so much like fire and brimstone. Just bourbon and spearmint gum.  
  
While he’s filing that away for future, less gut-shot, reference, he’s dimly aware of Boyd reaching over his head… the kind of sudden motion that, if he were able and armed, would have him reaching for his gun. But Boyd’s just pressing the button on the morphine drip, giving him a nice dose of painkiller to float on for a spell. “Sleep, Raylan,” he urges in a soothing whisper. A thousand times more effective than any drug. “Just sleep. I’ll be here when you awaken.”  
  
“That…” His eyes flutter shut, closing out the light and denying the accompanying power of Boyd’s infernal grin. “That is just what I’m afraid of.”  
  
It’s a lie, and they both know it.  
  
  
\--end--  
  
February 28, 2012


End file.
